


In Your Debt, In My Heart

by Heyerette



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Especially When He Is A Durin..., Fluff, Flustered Hobbit, M/M, Minor Violence, No Real Smut Because I Can´t Do Smut But Allusions To Smut If You So Will, Once You Lend A Dwarf A Helping Hand..., One-Shot, Pre-Quest, Prompt Fic, Romance, Wounded Dwarf Pride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1460275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyerette/pseuds/Heyerette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance meeting in Bree one very nasty evening ends with an ashamed hobbit taking flight and an enraged dwarf king entertaining thoughts of retribution should he ever find the one again who had not only come to his aid but had also stubbornly refused to allow him to settle his debt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Debt, In My Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinysparks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinysparks/gifts).



> Don´t look at me, look at shinysparks. I think she secretly owns a plot bunny zoo and her favourite hobby has become releasing them into the wild whenever I´m around. This time she wanted Thorin and Bilbo to meet in Bree and Bilbo helping/rescuing Thorin from his would-be attackers at the Prancing Pony before the Company actually makes its way to the Shire. And this is what became of it. Sorry. ;) 
> 
> Hope you like, J.

Thorin stood in front of the round green door and scowled.

Heavily.

His mood had not improved when, upon entering the Shire and making his way through the maze of hills and holes and scanning each and every hobbit that came within his line a vision – and he had no hesitated to send what his sister-sons commonly referred to as his Glare of Doom the way of the most unashamedly curious (and that female hobbit had _winked_ at him! He growled at the recollection.) – he had failed to spot the hobbit that he was going to strangle the moment he should find him again. 

The hobbit who had had the infamy to not only come to his aid and then fuss over him and then entice him and then seduce him but who had been _absent_ when the king woke in the man-sized bed in that abominable inn in Bree. 

The hobbit that had stolen himself away without so much as a word of goodbye to Thorin. Or any indication that he should not be averse to repeat the events of the past night at some time.

That small, soft, inexplicably attractive creature had wounded his pride.

 _Used_ him.

For his pleasure.

And it did not at all matter that Thorin had found greater pleasure than he could remember ever having experienced with the strange, nearly hairless, _mewling_ being in his arms. 

The noises the hobbit had made.

No-one should be allowed to make such sounds.

They should be illegal.

Which was why he had made it his mission to encourage even more of them.

He had had to hear them all, in order to be able to lecture the hobbit about their unsuitability later.

And for no other reason.

And he had also not been looking for the hobbit among the many hobbits for any other reason than putting the hobbit firmly in his place. 

And he was also going to put the wizard firmly in his place for not only deserting him once he had had his fill of bread and cheese and ale – he would not have been subjected to the indignity of finding himself assisted by a _hobbit_ (he would have dealt with his two attackers very well on his own!), who blushed and squirmed and waved their little hands around upon realising they had just taken out a human assassin by the expertise of swinging a bedpan, and then have been forced to join the hobbit in his rented chamber and – but for forcing him to travel across half of Middle Earth for the sole purpose of recruiting another of the abominable species for his quest.

He had no need of a burglar.

One of his Company could steal from the bane of his existence that was the dragon.

 _He_ would steal from the dragon if necessary.

And with infinitely more grace than any hobbit could possess.

When he thought of the hobbit in his – the inn´s – bed …

Who had just swung open the door and was staring at Thorin with shock frozen on his face.

~ ~ ~ ~

Oh dear.

That was - 

Not good.

Not good at all.

In fact it was so not good at all that any respectable hobbit would immediately close the door, which they may have opened a tiny bit of a crack when their worried curiosity took over but really, with all the mayhem going on outside the door and a hobbitish tendency to offer aid when needed – or at least Bilbo Baggins suffered under such a one and he blamed that entirely on his father Bungo Baggins who had been all that was gentle and caring and – and helpful. Also – his mother was half _Took._.

But now he had seen it – them – and it was terribly unfair of the two big men to attack the poor dwarf and - 

Was that a _knife_?

It was a knife.

_Eru._

That was no common brawl between drunkards – not that Bilbo had any experience in the matter, having striven to stay far, far away from any fighting and brawling and unseemly aggression during the fifty years or thereabouts of his life (that time he went after Ludo Proudfoot with that stick did _not_ count. And Ludo had pulled at poor, sweet Peony Merryweather´s hair. And he had been all but a fauntling.) and while he may have _some_ experience in the art of drinking he had taken care to always restrict his more dedicated bouts to family gatherings (and really, who could blame a hobbit from perhaps looking a little too deep into his tankard when faced with an onslaught of _that_ lot for almost a full week!) and the occasional visit to an inn with his friends during his younger years – that was - 

They were trying to murder the dwarf.

Nope.

The hobbit turned away from the door and walked back into his room.

~ ~ ~ ~

He had seen the dwarf in the common room, of course.

It was hard to miss him, even with the same having been rather full of travellers and diners and possibly more so than on a regular day, with the nasty, horrible weather conditions outside.

Bilbo had been happy to find a seat close to the roaring fire and eat his dinner surrounded by warmth, if not anything that could be remotely described as peace. There were men and hobbits and the innkeeper and his daughters and the rest of the servants and - 

The dwarf.

Bilbo had only ever seen dwarves from a distance while they had been travelling through the Shire and had known better than to stare and point, as the more curious among his neighbours were wont to do, and well, they were quite hairy, from what he had seen, and rather massive, on the whole, and Bilbo had not really spent time pondering the attractiveness of dwarves until - 

Well, he had _eyes_.

And they served him quite well, thank you.

The dwarf that had walked into the inn just as he had been about to take a sip of his tea had been - 

Striking.

Once he had taken off his hood and Bilbo found himself staring – which may have been rather rude, of course, but really, he had had no warning whatsoever that he would be faced with such features and such piercing blue eyes and that shock of a raven mane streaked with silver and that glare -

Oh dear.

Uhm, yes, well.

Caught in the act and all that.

The tip of the hobbit´s ears had flushed an interesting shade of red and he had quickly lowered his gaze to the man-sized tea cup which, fortunately, served as a semi-respectable barrier. Not that he had had any need of any barriers, precisely, but a hobbit could not just admit out loud that he was trying to _hide_ behind a tea cup.

Eru - 

That _smile_.

Yes, it was just a very quick smile of thanks but it had been directed at the barmaid who clearly wasn´t nearly appreciative enough of it. 

No, wait.

The hobbit narrowed his eyes over his tea cup.

Was she swinging her hips?

And that smirk over her shoulder.

Now, really!

How – 

Not at all respectable!

Surely inn staff was not paid to flirt with customers and - 

Ha.

The dwarf was not even paying attention to the girl, being much more interested in his cheese and his bread and - 

Now that was a bit of an, uhm, unsavoury character.

Not that he had vast experience in the matter of unsavoury characters, Yavanna be thanked, but even he could tell that that big, bald creature with the scar on his rather, well, ugly face and the look of absolute, ruthless determination about him who kept looking at the dwarf had other things in mind than a friendly chat over tea.

But why was that man interested in the dwarf?

And why was he even looking?

He did not know the dwarf and certainly could not boast of any acquaintance with the unsavoury character so he had much better return to his tea and perhaps order more of those little cakes which the innkeeper had assured him had been freshly made by his wife that very afternoon and then retire to his room and pack and sleep and then travel back to the Shire on the morning and forget about any attractive dwarves with their blue eyes and their lovely hair who would not be interested in a plain, unremarkable hobbit anyway and whom he was not at all interested in either because he was a respectable hobbit and respectable hobbits did not have any dalliances with non-hobbits and he was such a respectable hobbit that he did not even have dalliances with very much so-hobbits and - 

Blasted dwarf.

He would not even look at the dwarf anymore, thank you.

And well, now that the tall man in the grey robe and with the grey hat and the grey beard had sat down opposite from the dwarf his view of the dwarf had been entirely blocked.

How rude.

~ ~ ~ ~

The hobbit was no longer staring at him.

Good.

Ludicrous little thing.

He could not even dream to harm a hair on his head.

He was so small and gentle-looking that Thorin had no doubt all it would take was one harsh glare and the ridiculously curly haired creature would not only hide his reasonably pretty face behind that cup again but also attempt to crawl into it.

Some would-be assassin that hobbit was.

Beardless, curly-haired and -

Not at all attractive.

Thorin bit of another chunk of bread and scowled.

This was not the time for distraction and if the hobbit as much as peaked at him one more time he would rise from his table and march over to where that new bane of his existence was oh so innocently sipping his tea and - 

His arm made to reach for the sword at his side.

There were two.

Discounting the hobbit.

The king braced himself for battle, shoulders tensing, senses on alert.

If he was to be attacked by those Men he would not - 

“I´ll have the same, my dear, thank you.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Hire a _burglar_.

Thorin sneered as he made his way down the hall that bore the chamber he had taken for the night.

What need had he of a _burglar_.

He would travel to the north to meet with his kin and raise a company to make the track to Erebor and retake their home from the beast. There was no requirement for an outsider to share in their quest, and even less for a hobbit burglar who would prove to be more of a hindrance than an asset of any use with his soft cheeks and curly hair and - 

A _hobbit_.

He did not want any hobbit and certainly not any hobbits that had recently been within his line of vision; he wanted his home and his throne and his gold and the birthright for his sister-sons.

A hobbit would just be an additional burden.

Which he did not have time for.

He needed to make plans, to speak to Balin, have Dwalin look into -

“Goin´ somewhere, dwarf?”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Oh dear.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin swung round at the perturbed voice, panting slightly and wiping his hair out of his face in one impatient movement.

“You!”

~ ~ ~ ~

Oh dear.

That was not quite - 

Maybe he should not have - 

But then there had been that knife and - 

Well.

He had not hit that hard, surely. 

That man would surely wake up again.

Some time.

Soon.

Probably.

And that other one - 

Oh dear.

That might take a while.

Well, he deserved that.

Yes, he had tried to _kill_ the dwarf!

Bilbo hoped he´d suffer a long, long time once he regained conciousness. 

And think twice about trying to harm another being again.

And one that was not nearly as big as himself!

What their parents taught those two the hobbit did not care to imagine.

Honestly.

The most that happened in Hobbition was a friendly brawl amongst tweens trying to impress the object of their imagined affections.

Although he _could_ feel tempted to introduce certain Sackville-Baggins cousins of his to a rather more violent approach to a scold. Here and there. But that was the Sackville-Bagginses and those were two Men currently unconcious in the hallway thanks to a lucky strike by his bedpan (Bilbo did not entertain any illusions as to his prowess in battle, thank you) and a dwarf´s very able fists. 

Gods, he was rather magnificent, wasn´t he?

All tall and dark and handsome and panting and about to strangle him and - 

Wait - _strangle_ him?

Now really!

~ ~ ~ ~

The hobbit swatted at the hand that had wrapped itself around his throat.

“Do you mind?”

If the dwarf was surprised at the reaction he did not show it. Instead, those brilliant blue eyes narrowed even further, the dwarf speaking in one low, dangerous growl.

“Do you think I will release you for you to finish what your comrades started, hobbit?”

“Finish – comrades - what – _excuse me_!” 

Bilbo swatted at the hand again, his cheeks turning a little red at the implication. He! An _assassin!_ He was a perfectly respectable, proper hobbit, thank you very much. Who had only happened to give in to the very stupid nudge of his conscience to come to the aid of a clearly befuddled, imbecilic dwarf who did not even have the common sense to recognise an ally and -

Honestly.

The hobbit glared up into the menacing face, having crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Do I look like an assassin, Master Dwarf?”

The dwarf seemed momentarily taken aback before his eyes narrowed again.

“You stared at me, hobbit. Do not think I had not noticed.”

“What? I – oh for Yavanna´s sake - _will_ you stop that now! - if I wanted to harm you you can be certain I would have found a more ingenious manner to do so. Yes, and a less -” Bilbo eyed the blood that trickled down one of the attackers´ faces with all the appropriate hobbitish disgust. Really. So unsanitary. “ - physical one.”

The king, having removed his hand once his wrist had been firmly clasped – exhibiting all the disgust required on the occasion of having parts of his person touched by foreign hands – uselessly soft as they were, too! - drew back, his own arms folded, and lifted a haughty brow.

“You think you could best me, Master Hobbit?”

“I have a chamber pot.” There may or may not have been a mumble along the general lines of _and I should have used it on you!_ when the exasperated hobbit ran a mildly frustrated hand through his curls. That – that _dwarf_ was entirely - 

Right.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

Because - 

It could be the shock.

A delayed reaction to the terror.

At least Bilbo hoped it was something of the kind because it really would be such a shame if he were to learn that all this dwarf with his noble countenance and his lovely dark tresses that were streaked with silver and his lovely, presently glaring blue eyes essentially was in more substantial possession of was - 

Rocks in his head.

And really - 

Oh dear.

Right.

A hand reached out and pulled.

~ ~ ~ ~

He did not gape.

He was _King_.

Kings did not take to anything so undignified.

But he would be permitted to exhibit such unkingly behaviour because not only had the hobbit basically threatened to take a swing with his ingenious _weapon_ \- and dwarves were much sturdier than the race of Men! – and take aim at _him_ , he had then proceeded to grab him by the front of his _tunic_ and had _dragged_ him into his chamber!

Thorin had been so surprised that he had not even thought of defending himself. 

Did the hobbit just bolt the - 

He snarled.

He would not be forced to remain in a room and - 

“ _Hobbit._ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

The king favoured the smaller being with another glare.

“I did not ask for your help, Master Hobbit.”

He took great pleasure in observing the red stains that appeared on the beardless, pale cheeks. The hobbit _should_ feel embarrassed. Contrite, even. 

Interfering, high-handed, surprisingly attractive - 

_Thank_ him.

Show some _gratitude_. 

Which the puffed-up hobbit was still waiting for.

Hands on hips.

Hairy foot tapping.

Almost reminding him of his amad.

Who had been blessed with the most beautiful of beards but no such adornment on her feet, of course, but he found himself almost shuffling his own feet at the disappointed expectancy in the look directed at him.

Mahal´s hammer – he was not - 

A pair of small shoulders suddenly slumped a little in front of him at the continued silence.

Was that a sigh?

It was a sigh.

And that look of resignation -

Durin´s beard.

He was not going to fall for that – he had been dealing with his nephews for too many years to - 

_Not_ a _pout_!

Anything but -

“I am sorry.”

And there was no reason to cast him that doubtful look of blatant disbelief instead!

He may not be in the habit of apologising often but he _did_ know how to formulate one and the hobbit could not possibly have any knowledge of how little he generally found himself required to take to it and - 

Hm.

He supposed the hobbit _did_ save him.

Aid him.

Not that he had required anything of the sort but the small being had seen fit to intervene and he could acknowledge the spirit behind it, at least, no matter how uncalled for.

A _hobbit._

Taking out a _human_ assassin.

With a pan.

A _bed_ pan.

Thorin resisted the urge to cover his face with a hand.

His kin must never know.

He could easily terrify his nephews into behaving; but _Dwalin_ would never permit him to forget.

But that was of no import now, he would acknowledge the hobbit´s deed and clear the debt between them and then forget about the entire incident and especially the hobbit.

He would definitely not ask the hobbit to be his hob – burglar. 

Gandalf would be sending word on his findings and Thorin had no intention of wasting any further thought and time on that matter.

He drew himself up.

“My gratitude for your assistance, Master Hobbit. What is your price?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Price?

Did the dwarf just - 

_Price_?!

~ ~ ~ ~

“You do not want my gold?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo was about to succumb to the effects of an apoplexy.

Or could he possibly get away with throwing a tantrum?

He would very much like to throw a tantrum, if to merely annoy the stupidest, most obnoxious, and _rudest_ dwarf he had ever met in his life! He was fairly certain the stubborn dwarf would not have the slightest hint of an idea of how to deal with a hobbit that had regressed to the fauntling stage. Of the favourite-toy-had-been-confiscated-because-he-had-unjustly-been-accused-of-pulling-Daisy Cotton´s-braid-kind. It would not be pretty. At all. 

Pay him! 

The dwarf was seriously trying to _pay_ him!

And refused to accept that Bilbo did not _want_ any sort of compensation.

Yes, and the – the _oaf_ appeared to be even _puzzled_ by his refusal! When he remembered to not be annoyed and impatient.

Really.

That confounded - 

He would be tempted to throw the dwarf out into the hall again except those two unsavoury characters were probably still about, if a little worse for the wear – which had been his sole reason for pulling the dwarf inside when he saw one of them beginning to show signs of movement, whatever the idiotic, suspicious dwarf had been insinuating, thank you very much! - and he could not very well arrange it with his conscience to possibly be responsible for further harm coming to him. He was already sporting some nasty bruises and a gash on his arm, which the hobbit had been itching to see to for a great many minutes but the stupid dwarf was entirely too stupid for focusing on the really important matters and just stood there ranting about comrades and payments and - 

Gods, the stupid dwarf was really very handsome.

And had this commanding air about him, almost something _majestic_.

Not that Bilbo cared about that sort of thing.

Besides, he felt _insulted_.

To be offered payment for - 

Bilbo heaved an exasperated sigh.

Right.

 _That_ was going nowhere. Had the dwarf been a hobbit - 

But the dwarf was a dwarf so he would have to drive his point home more forcefully. Clearly. Nobody would know how unhobbitish he would have accorded himself. Well, he could not very well offer the dwarf tea and scones to discuss the matter over the same. In an adequately civilised manner. Like hobbits were wont to do. Generally. So he would just tell him to get it into his - 

“Your price, hobbit.”

Or maybe not.

~ ~ ~ ~

“That is not acceptable. I will not leave these premises without having discharged my debt!”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. And not even inwardly, thank you. 

“Well, then you will be here a very long time, Master Dwarf, for I am a hobbit and it is not customary amongst hobbits to accept recompense for help that was willingly and freely given!”

The dwarf growled, advancing on the hobbit.

Which resulted in a small, stubborn chin lifting.

“Hobbit.”

“Dwarf.”

Darkened blue eyes narrowed once more and practically glowered into light ones, faces mere inches apart.

“Name your price.”

“No.”

“You stubborn halfling!”

“You ridiculous dwarf!”

Noses were almost touching.

And if the hobbit had to firmly repress any decidedly inappropriate, unhobbitish reactions to the close proximity of the dwarf – was that a fleck of grey in all that blue? - he was not going to admit to them. Because really.

Those ears were quite lovely though.

In a round, silly way.

And that mouth - 

“- will tell me what you want!”

Would that beard scratch - 

“A kiss.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Oh no.

No, no, no, no, no.

He had not meant - 

He did not mean to - 

It was just a thought -

A very, very _stupid_ thought that had escaped him without permission and he really, really had no intention whatsoever of kissing anyone and - 

Oh _Eru._

The dwarf was staring at him.

He was about to eat him.

Or throw him out of the window.

Into the dark.

Where it was still raining.

And that storm was still merrily storming.

And he would be such a wet, cold, cast-out, miserable hobbit and - 

Right.

He was just going to be an adult hobbit about this.

He was going to apologise.

And laugh it off.

Yes.

Excellent.

And then he would accuse the dwarf of it being his own fault because was it _his_ fault that the dwarf smelled so – so dwarvish and that his closeness did such inappropriate things to him and that he had had to come to his aid and - 

“I accept.”

Oh.

Well.

That was - 

Quite fortunate, really.

Because - 

Wait.

_What?!_

~ ~ ~ ~

“You – what – _NO!_ I mean -” The flustered hobbit assembled what he considered to be his remaining wits, arms held up in a gesture of repellent mixed with finality. He hoped. Because he really did not - “I have no intention of kissing you. Or anyone. For payment. Or otherwise. Thank you. And I would be quite obliged to you if you had the common courtesy to simply accept that and to not look at me like an – an - _orc!_ and to go away and do whatever it is that dwarves do at this time of the day because I am quite, quite tired and really wish to go to bed and I promise to never think about rescuing any strange dwarves again and so, if you will just be on your way, Master Dwarf, and forget about me, entirely, I will be very much obliged to you and that is all I have to say. Thank you. And – and good evening!”

Determined, detailed and quite to the point.

And why was the dwarf still staring at him in that entirely unreadable, if somewhat ominous, manner?

Honestly.

He was very willing to make allowances for cultural and lingustic difference but that exemplary of the dwarven species exhibited an exaggerated tendency to pretend that any barriers of the sort were much more prominent than they were.

Would he have to use force?

He could not really count on that moment of surprise again and well, he was not nearly - 

“ _Quiet_.”

~ ~ ~ ~

He was going to kiss the hobbit.

The hobbit was going to kiss _him_.

The hobbit had stipulated his preferred method of payment and Thorin would pay him.

His honour demanded for him to honour the debt .

The hobbit had saved his life.

It did not matter that the act had been interfering, unwelcome, inappropriate, intolerable, rash, unsought and unacceptable; the infernal hobbit had put him under an obligation and by Durin, he would be allowed to have his relief of it!

And there had been knives involved and he might very well have been fatally wounded and was therefore perfectly within his rights to consider the debt one of the most serious order and if it took physical means to show the requisite acknowledgement he would take to them. With or without the hobbit´s consent!

Thorin growled.

If the hobbit thought he could take it back - 

He would kiss the hobbit - _once_. And quickly. - and then leave the Mahal forsaken inn and seek out a stable to sleep in as at least then he would be spared the intolerable insubordination and flightiness of soft, curly-haired creatures who opened their big eyes impossibly wide at him and flushed just that shade of red and whose inexhaustible babbling was going to give him a headache and which was why the king had determined to close the distance that the exasperating halfling had put between them again while growling for silence and unceremoniously possessed himself of the beardless face and proceeded to clear his debt.

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin groaned.

Deeply.

The halfling was running his hands through his hair. 

Clearly it was not enough for the incredibly soft, pliant being in his arms to nearly rob him of his breath. No, the halfling had decided to completely undo him as well. 

Which he would not tolerate.

 _He_ would be the one to undo the hobbit.

This was no longer about the debt, not about payment. This was - 

_Mahal._

The hobbit - 

The king snapped, using his superior strength to crowd the smaller being against a wall, pinning his arms above his head while his mouth crashed down to devour the swollen lips before they could give voice to any shock or surprise. 

The wide, darkened eyes were enough.

And as for the noises - 

The hobbit was going to be the death of him.

~ ~ ~ ~

Oh Gods.

The dwarf was kissing him.

He was kissing the dwarf.

And quite thoroughly, thank you.

Bilbo knew, at least somewhere quite far away in a deep, almost inaccessible part of his currently very befuddled mind, that he should _not_ be kissing the dwarf. Or allow the dwarf to kiss him.

He was a respectable hobbit.

Respectable hobbits did not simply kiss strange dwarves.

Not even strange hobbits.

And certainly not in any inns.

Or in their chambers.

And – _Eru!_ \- the dwarf certainly knew what he was doing. In fact, his knees would be giving out very soon if very much of this continued. Well, there was the bed, of course - 

Or the wall would do very nicely, too, yes.

Who would have guessed all that hair to be so very thick and soft? Bilbo could spend hours simply running his fingers through it. And the dwarf did not seem to mind. Judging from that groan mere seconds ago. Which had been more of a rumble, really. And had given him _shivers_.

He did not even know the dwarf´s _name!_

That - 

“Wait!”

~ ~ ~ ~

Small hands pushed against a solid chest, the hobbit breathing heavily when he had the opportunity to do so again, the dwarf that looked at him through impatient, burning eyes having placed his hands on the wall to both sides of his head.

“What?”

At any other time, Bilbo would have raised a brow at the low growl but sadly, his entire brain had been turned to something akin to mush and so he found himself only able to hold on to one thought at a time.

“Your -” The hobbit swallowed at the intensity of the gaze directed at him. “I don´t know your name.”

The dwarf blinked, as if momentarily confused.

Then those incredible eyes burned into him again.

“Thorin.”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Thorin.”

The name was barely a whisper on the shocked hobbit´s lips.

The first dwarf had been a trial.

An unexpected one.

Then came a second.

Number three and four.

And then eight more had stumbled into his hobbit hole all at once and he had just about managed to jump aside before he could have been buried beneath the rubble that was that lot.

The things they had done to his poor pantry.

And they had still been waiting for the leader.

Of the Company.

And then there had eventually been that impatient, thumping of three knocks on his already thoroughly abused door and Bilbo had resigned himself to the inevitable but the inevitable would have been preferable to the impossible and seeing the dwarf in front of him, in the Shire, in Hobbiton, in Bag End, had been something that the hobbit would have considered very much impossible.

But there stood his dwarf.

The dwarf he had first and last seen in the Prancing Pony, on the bed, dark mane sprawled out on white pillows (who knew dwarves enjoyed _hogging_ pillows!), lovely, muscular, hairy chest (and that hair was quite as soft as the one on his head, strangely enough) on display – and he had been very thankful that Other Parts had at least been covered by the sheet because seeing all that, uhm, dwarf in broad daylight as opposed to the dark of the night, with the fire turned low and the candles stuffed out, was something entirely different to a hobbit who might have enjoyed acquainting himself with All That Dwarf for many hours but had realised what he had done on the morning and - 

Gods, the dwarf had been so lovely.

And he had -

The tips of the hobbit´s ears immediately blushed a fiery red at the recollection of the finer points of that night.

Eru.

He had been the first to wake on that morning, finding his back pressed against a hard surface that was a hairy chest, one equally hairy arm slung over his own chest and pressing him close; momentary confused as to where he was and how he came to be - 

And then he remembered.

And panicked.

A little.

Fine, a lot, but really, he was a _Baggins_. A Baggins did not demand kisses from practically strangers and then take them to bed or allow them to take him to bed and do all the things he and the dwarf – Thorin – had been doing.

It had been quite the most wonderfully passionate night in his life.

And surprisingly tender, at times.

Those blue eyes had borne into his own and - 

And he had bolted.

He had quickly dressed and packed his belongings, trying to be as silent as possible – he had never been so thankful for his hobbit feet before! - and had practically run out of the room and away from the still slumbering dwarf on its bed.

The innkeeper had been paid the evening before so all that he had had to accomplish was to leave the inn and make the track back to Hobbiton and forget about the past night and any dwarves named Thorin and their big, calloused hands who cupped his face just like that and their talented - 

Nope.

Not thinking about it.

Not on the journey back, not when sitting in his favourite armchair holding on to a cup of tea by way of a lifeline (Tea was the answer, according to his father. Always. And he had sincerely hoped it would provide him with proper insight into how he could have gone and – ah, not thinking about it!), not when turning and turning and turning in his bed that first night back, not over first breakfast the next morning. And not over second breakfast or elevenses either. Or any other meal.

And when he did eventually Think About It he came to the quite resolute and happy conclusion that there was no point in mulling what had occurred over because he would, quite fortunately, never see the dwarf again and had, even more fortunately, somehow omitted to give the dwarf _his_ name so the dwarf could not even come looking for him which was no shame at all and had him not even the tiniest bit depressed because he might very secretly wish him to and harbour regrets as regarded his flight from the inn and leaving the dwarf behind without even a note and - 

Because _that_ had been rude.

Very, very _rude_.

Oh dear, he´d have to apologise to the dwarf when he saw him again.

Only he would not be seeing him again.

Which was just as well.

Absolutely.

Perfectly.

Quite -

What Bilbo wanted.

Yes.

Thank you.

And it was not at all well that the dwarf he was not going to see ever again was standing in his doorway.

And apparently not remembering him.

One jot.

That was - 

Well.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce to you the lea-”

“We´ve met. That is – I, well -”

~ ~ ~ ~

The poor hobbit had flushed up to the tips of his pointed ears at the puzzled, questioning expression on the wizard´s face - especially when the very same wizard had turned to the dwarf that, to Bilbo´s natural and great misfortune, was apparently the leader of the bunch of miscreants that had done their best to disrupt his otherwise quiet evening as much as possible - and had started to express something like his, albeit surprised, delight at introductions not being necessary, only to be interrupted by the dwarf´s firm and curt denial of any acquaintance.

Those eyes – those incredible blue eyes which he had been trying very hard to not think of, especially during his first very sleepless nights, when he had been so very, very ashamed still – had barely flickered over him when the dwarf had announced that he was - 

Mistaken.

And had proceeded into his smial without any further glance at his host, thrusting his overcoat to one of the younger dwarves – Kili – and joined his kin at the table.

Bilbo had assembled the remains of his wits and composure just in time to walk into his dining room once more to overhear the dwarf remarking on his resemblance to a grocer and sharing a smirk with the bald, tattooed dwarf over his _very clear lack of any fighting skills and prowess_.

That -

That - 

There had not been any complaints about his _prowess_ that night in Bree, thank you very much! 

Indignation bubbled up in the affronted hobbit´s chest, quite chasing away any remains of shock and surprise. 

Right.

That was how the dwarf – Thorin – meant to play it.

Fine.

By all means.

If he wanted to pretend he had forgotten - 

What if he had _truly_ forgotten?

Forgotten - 

Him?

Their night in - 

Well, that was, of course, just what Bilbo wanted because it should never have happened and if Thorin was so obliging as to have wiped the memory of that entirely improper mistake off his mind he would be all that was obliged to the dwarf and very much relieved and pleased and - 

Not at all hurt.

To be so easily forgotten.

But thinking about it – how quick the dwarf had been to accept the not-even-really-a-request request of a kiss as _payment_ \- and how _good_ \- 

Yes, well.

Probably a dwarven thing and all that.

Dwarves were not nearly as respectable as hobbits.

Nor proper.

Obviously.

He just had to look into his dining room. 

And his pantry.

So he was not at all going to feel hurt in any way over the knowledge that it had been nothing out of the common for the dwarf. 

Something entirely forgettable. 

Clearly.

He would just reheat some soup and fetch some bread and present it to the _Leader_ and then retire to his bedroom and leave all those dwarves to their own devices until they left in the morning and curl up on his bed and _not_ be miserable in the slightest.

Because that was just what he wanted.

Yes.

Good.

The hobbit took a restorative breath and removed himself to his kitchen.

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin was not at all worried.

Nor did he harbour any regrets.

And he most certainly had not felt the slightest bit of shame at the clear hurt on his host´s face at his denial of any acquaintance with the hobbit.

The hobbit had no right to be hurt.

 _He_ had the right to be hurt.

The hobbit had abandoned _him_.

Treated him like a common - 

It had only been instinct that had him almost jump from his seat and lower himself to the ground and cradle the unconscious hobbit to his chest and run a calloused hand through honey-coloured curls while Oin had taken to rummaging around in his pouch for some concoction that would revive the entirely too still being on the bed. 

To which he had carried the hobbit.

The hobbit.

The bed.

_Bilbo._

Thorin suddenly stiffened and swiftly rose to leave the room, much to the puzzlement of the healer and the mildly curious observation by the wizard.

~ ~ ~ ~

His eyes had not followed the hobbit around his home.

He had just assured that he was familiar with all possible threats and escape options in case there should be an – attack.

The green land was entirely to quiet and unassuming, Thorin would not be surprised if some danger was only lurking behind the next hill.

And as a guest it would be his duty to keep their host safe.

And then murder him in private.

Which he was still very much going to do.

For fleeing from him, for not even leaving him his _name_ , for running around in his little hobbit hole on his big, hairy feet in that indecently revealing patched robe and then having the effrontery to don a pair of plain trousers and shirt and robbing him of the opportunity to ascertain whether his memory was still something to take great pride in by trying to establish whether the hobbit´s form was still as he remembered it, for fussing over his nephews and being gentle with the youngest Ri, for offering Balin more wine and Bombur more of that delicious pie and for amiably speaking to Bofur when he quite ignored his own presence, apart from having placed a bowl of soup before him without even looking at him when Thorin offered his curt thanks!

He was the only one who had any right to the hobbit´s attention.

The hobbit must have known he had not _meant_ to deny their - 

Surely he was not an imbecile.

He had just been surprised.

Overwhelmed.

Angry.

Inexplicably hap - 

But there had been no sign of pleasure on the consternated face which he had cupped in his hands all those weeks ago and the softness of which he had marvelled over – there had only been annoyance when the door had opened. And recognition had set in.

Hurt had briefly flickered in his chest.

And he had quickly buried it.

If the hobbit thought he had any power over him - 

It had just been physical.

A means to rid himself of a debt.

And it had been at the hobbit´s instigation!

The hobbit had asked for a kiss.

And it would have remained a mere kiss had he not - 

Mahal.

Thorin had _wanted_.

One brief contact and he had wanted.

Had wanted to mark, to claim, to possess, to devour, to _love_ -

He had made the hobbit his that night and awakening in a lonely bed, after what had passed between himself and an entirely unsuitable, unsought for, unimaginable, impudent, irresistible, soft, passionate - 

He had been furious.

And had felt loss.

When he realised he had not even any name and his hopes of finding the hobbit again to berate him and demand an apology and to stake his claim had swindled into almost nothingness in consequence -

And now he was in the hobbit´s home.

Bilbo´s home.

The home of the hobbit the wizard had chosen as his burglar.

To join the quest, steal from a dragon, help the dwarves reclaim their home.

And he did not care to come.

The hand that had been wrapped somewhat tightly around the glass tightened even further.

Thorin was going to make certain that the hobbit would come.

He would bind the hobbit to his pony and make him ride in front of him all the way to Erebor if he had to.

Which was how long it was going to take the hobbit to apologise to him for making him endure - 

It was also going to enable him to make certain that he would not faint again.

It was his duty to look after the members of his Company.

And he would throw Bofur to the next warg if he should ever scare the hobbit like that again.

If anyone was going to scare the hobbit it would be Thorin.

And then take him into his arms and press him to his chest and run a soothing hand through his ridiculously curly hair and down his back to his lovely bottom and - 

“ - care for tea?”

Thorin´s head jerked up at the voice which he knew capable of making quite different sounds to the polite, gentle tone in the question.

Tea.

The king huffed.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Right. So. If you are all settled then -” Bilbo quickly scanned the room again, taking in the number of blankets and pillows and boots and weapons and dwarves - “Uhm .. goodnight!”

A chorus of quiet and grumbled goodnights and growls went through the room and the hobbit turned away to quietly make his way to his own bedchamber now that he had seen to it that all of his unexpected guests had been put up for the night. The guest rooms had been given to the boys, of course – Bilbo felt a strange, exasperating kind of fondness for the two young Durins who had quickly taken to teasing and bothering him and yet he had not felt it in his heart to more than reprimand them like he would reprimand his young Took cousins on occasion, despite those two being quite a bit older – and he would also have put the other young dwarf – Ori, he remembered – into the chamber but had met with blank refusal on behalf of the eldest Ri brother who had dragged the gentle, resigned dwarf off to where he had designated to make up his own niche that evening. 

And his parents´ room -

Which was now his best guestroom - 

Had been allotted to the King.

King.

Thorin was a _king_.

Bilbo had almost fainted a second time upon learning that he had been – intimate – with a _king_.

As if the whole thing had not been quite embarrassing and forgettable enough!

And that – that – dwarf had not even told him!

No, they were not any kings in the Shire, thank you, but the hobbit felt he should have been made aware of - 

Fine, he grumbled, making his way to his own bedroom; he had not even told the dwarf his name but really - 

Good thing they were going to leave on the morning.

Taking their stupid king with them.

Him to join any quests.

Going on an _adventure_.

No, thank you, he had had quite enough of that the last time he was in Bree and see where _that_ had got him.

He had not even been recognised.

No, no adventures for this hobbit, thank you very much.

Especially not with any dwarves who deemed to _forget_ about him after - 

And not with any _kings_ who did not have one word to say to him when - 

And most certainly not with any dwarf kings who were currently sitting in the middle of his bed, legs crossed, wearing naught but their loose tunics and trousers.

~ ~ ~ ~

Really, he had had quite enough.

He just wanted his bed.

So that he could collapse onto it.

And close his eyes.

And sleep.

And pretend this whole evening never happened.

And that he had never even gone to Bree and - 

And now - _now_ he had a dwarf king sitting on his bed. 

A very, very lovely dwarf king.

One he could claim intimate knowledge of.

But had denied any knowledge of _him._

And he was on his bed.

His very own bed.

After _that_ evening.

Right.

That was it.

He was past politeness.

Respectability.

He was _tired_.

And – and a little unhappy, perhaps.

And angry.

And quite, fully, totally, absolutely fed up with any and all dwarves!

Right.

The hobbit crossed his arms, favouring the dwarf on his bed with a patented Baggins Glare.

“Was there something Your Majesty wanted? Is Your Majesty´s room not to Your Majesty´s satisfaction? Is Your Majesty in need of more pillows? Blankets? A nightcap? Nightgown? Slippers? Because if Your Majesty is I will have Your Majesty know that – wha- _Thorin!_ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo glared up at the dwarf.

Not that that had any impact on the hand that was presently covering his mouth.

Which belonged to the dwarf that was currently hovering over him, while he found himself on his back. On his bed.

Any second now, he was going to do a very unhobbitish thing that involved his mouth and a movement and his teeth and that hand - 

“No biting.”

Excuse him?

Oh, but now he was really cross.

Really, really, _very_ cross.

It was his bed and if he wanted to bite anyone on it he _would_ bite them on it! 

And - 

_Nope._

That was only reminding him of certain activities on a certain bed in a certain inn and that was not good – at all – so.

He narrowed his eyes even further, which finally made the big, calloused hand relent.

Bilbo shot up.

“You stupid -”

“You talk too much.”

The hobbit gaped, not quite believing the cheek of the - 

“Excuse me? How would _you_ even know? Seeing that we have never even met before?”

He may have taken a little malicious pleasure in the wince that briefly disrupted the dwarf´s stoicism but before the hobbit could bask in it those intense blue eyes had focused on him again and, well, were robbing him of a little of his focus.

Drat the dwarf!

And moreover - 

“You left.”

\- he should never even have opened his mouth. Clearly.

He - 

“I -”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Improper. You say what passed between us was _improper._ ”

Bilbo sighed, burying his face in the furred chest once more.

Really, everything he had said, after everything they had just done – again (and he was not going to blush _this_ time, thank you very much!) - for the dwarf to stubbornly come back to that one, small part of his explanation - 

He had told the dwarf about hobbits and Bagginses and Tooks and respectability and above all his resigned state of bachelorhood and how what had happened between them had shaken him and scared him in its surprising wonderfulness and how he had been scared of losing his heart and - 

Well, that had been too late.

Evidently.

He might have tried to ignore it, resolutely and for many weeks but - 

How ridiculous.

And not at all hobbitish.

They had not even been _courting_.

All they had done was _argue_. 

Mere minutes after meeting.

If you could call it that.

And that, uhm, other thing.

Which had made him run away.

Only he was very much too comfortable _now_ to take to that again and really, one could not really run from one´s own home so he was just going to remain in his bed and let the dwarf hold him and stroke his curls and his back and - 

Was that his _bottom_?

No, really, they had agreed to _rest_.

What with the early start on the morning and he still had to pack and write letters and make breakfast and see to provisions on the road and that felt quite lovely, thank you, and - 

Well.

He supposed the dwarf should be allowed to apologise to him.

Once again.

For his actions when crossing his threshold.

Yes.

Quite.

It would be the polite, generous thing to do.

And seeing Thorin Oakenshield, by his own admission, was not good with words - 

Bilbo rolled over, stretching his body out on the hard, solid form beneath him.

He was part Took, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own anything Hobbit-y and merely borrow characters and tweak plots for my own amusement.


End file.
